Strength
by Aviantei
Summary: After being pulled underground, Pitch manages to escape the Nightmares that pursue him. But the safe haven he finds will nowhere be the place he expects. And it all starts with the offer of one human woman who defies any form of logic placed on her. PitchxOC
1. Prologue: Fear

**Strength**

By: Aviantei

Prologue: Fear

* * *

So this was fear.

He thought he had understood. Fear was his business after all. It was what he did, what he caused, what he had desired. And he knew what it was like when other people were afraid. That was a truly beautiful thing that was unlike any other. It was so powerful, and it filled him with strength. Because that was what he believed fear to be.

But not this.

This was excruciating, nothing he had ever experienced—_perhaps something like it long ago, in some far away memory, but he was certain never_—even though he had existed for centuries. This was palms sweating even though winter was still mixed into the oncoming spring air. This was heart pounding faster than he knew was possible. This was breath coming out in ragged bursts, for reasons that had nothing to do with how he was exerting himself. This was a panic, a desperation to escape from the Nightmares that were his own creation, and yet they were preying on _him_.

This was fear and it wasn't _right_.

He wasn't certain how long he had been running, nor if the corrupted horses were even following him anymore. There was a small hope for him [oh, how that infernal rabbit would gloat about that] that maybe, just maybe, at least one of the horses would have found someone else's fear to pray on _(it's empty at best, what else is there to be afraid of when the Guardians are there to protect him and no one even—)_ abandoning their chase for him in favor of someone else.

The woods were almost gone by now, surely that mean he had been running away for quite some time. Did that even matter, though? The Nightmares didn't tire easily, even in their current state. Being immortal, he shouldn't be tired either, but there was something quite draining about fear that he didn't know existed.

_(How much more are you going to realize you don't know about your own domain?)_

What should have been a humbling moment for the Nightmare King only served to anger him. The feeling disappeared quickly, though; the fear was persistent.

Where were the Nightmares? Surely they were close, but he couldn't sense them. It wasn't like he could call them either. They had turned on him. It was as simple as that. So he was going to run, because everything right now was so _uncertain_.

Not even an instant after he made his decision, he was stopped. For a second, he thought the Guardians had found him [this same collision like the one with North only a few hours ago], because he had run into another person. The Nightmare King remained standing, even with the other fell to the ground. He started to think how to counter an attack and—

There was a soft nicker, causing him to actually fall over. The fear was back, worse because the Nightmares actually had found him, and there was no way out of it. This time there was no slight lead that had allowed him to escape before.

And if anyone knew what the Nightmares were truly capable of, it was the one who made them; twisting the things that the Sandman used to give children good dreams into something truly terrifying, the embodiment of every last—

"Oh, Klaudia, stop it," a female voice chided. "I'm fine; stop fussing."

The horse bypassed the Nightmare King completely, its nose coming to rest on a woman's head. On closer inspection, there was no way he should have confused it for his own creations—the horse was a pale shade of gold, almost like the Sandman's sand. Looking around, he saw other horses scattered about a field [when had he passed through the fence, he didn't remember].

"Yes, I can stand, hold on," the woman continued, a portion of her bangs taking up residence in the horse's—_Klaudia?_—mouth. She completed the spoken of action, detaching herself and petting the animal's nose tenderly. "I'm not hurt, even if I don't understand what just—oh my god, are you alright?!"

It took a moment for Pitch to realize he was the one being addressed, and a few more seconds to compose himself enough to speak, even if it was only three words. "I am fine," he said tersely.

"I don't mean to be rude but... you don't seem fine," the woman said in response, offering a hand to help him up with. He hesitated before taking it. "I was just letting the horses out, so they'll be fine out here for a while. Would you like to come inside?"

"Where exactly is... 'inside'?" he questioned, finishing standing up and letting go of the woman's hand. Another look around the area only confirmed trees, field, and horses to be around.

"It's a bit of a walk, but it's that way." She raised a gloved hand to point behind him. He turned around, a barn and, further back, a house entering his vision. "If you were running, though, maybe you could sit down in the barn instead. It is heated, plus there's running water if you need it. You seem like at the very least you need to rest."

The words were true, but the Nightmare King [did he even deserve that title anymore?] was skeptic. The Nightmares were probably still after him. _(__But wouldn't they have caught you already?)_ There he was, out in the open, stationary, not even capable of protecting himself, and yet the Fearlings were nowhere in sight. Surely it was safe—maybe even _safer_—to take refuge in a house for a moment to catch his breath.

"I can walk," he asserted. The woman nodded, pouting the horse's snout one last time before stepping off. The immortal followed, eyes flicking off to look at the horses more than once. He almost stopped when a black animal entered the corners of his vision, standing by the fence, staring him. It was only a white marking on the [perfectly normal] horse's stomach that assured him he was still safe. "There are... a lot of horses here."

"Yes, I'm a breeder." The answer was supplied without specific prompting, and the woman smiled as she spoke. "I sometimes even open up the ranch up for kids from the nearby towns to get horse riding lessons, too."

_(That includes the children that just)_

"Surely you don't work here alone." The barn was noticeably empty of any workers as they entered. Combined with the lack of any other people outside, it seemed unusual.

"Oh, of course not!" she exclaimed. "There's no way I could handle all this on my own nonstop. It is Easter weekend, though. I gave all the hired help some time off. I guess the supposed downside is that I have to stay here myself for the weekend, but I really don't mind at all."

He frowned at the mention of the holiday, even if he had technically succeeded at ruining it, He forced himself to straighten out the expression on his face—the look in her eyes as she helped him up earlier had been _pity_ of all things, and the Nightmare King would not stand for it.

The house seemed much closer now that they were out the opposite end if the barn. It was a simple thing, one story and blue. The remains of the boy's snow crunched under their footsteps.

"Your hand felt cold," the woman muttered. Pitch looked down, her own eyes staring back apprehensively. "I could make you hot chocolate—oh, you're not a fan." He hadn't meant to make face, but hot chocolate was permanently associated with Christmas for him. "Would you prefer tea then?"

"It will do."

The woman walked up a small set of stairs leading to the house's door, opening it and gesturing for her guest to go inside. He complied and she had a small struggle to pull her boots off. By the time the door was closed, she had already bustled past him, jacket hanging off a hook by the doorway.

The Nightmare King followed, entering what he assumed to be the kitchen. It was strange; he usually only visited the bedrooms of houses or slinked about their hallways, and he almost _never_ entered through the front door.

"You can sit down, if you like," the woman offered, her back turned towards him. She seemed focused on providing him with the aforementioned tea. He took a seat, grateful that she didn't appear to be one that decorated for the holidays. The next few minutes passed in a surprisingly comfortable silence.

It was a relief, being able to sit down, to not have to run. The foreign experience of fear was gone. True, he wasn't feeling completely like himself yet, but it was nothing like the terrible panic he had gone through. The fact that, despite how long he had stayed in the same relative area, the Nightmares were (presumably) nowhere close was simply a bonus.

A tea cup was eventually placed in front of him, alongside a spoon and sugar bowl. "I didn't know if you'd want any," the woman admitted. Even though she tried to make it not obvious, he could still tell her own cup was filled with hot chocolate as she sat down. The sugar remained untouched as they both took their first sips of their respective beverages.

"You can stay here."

"What?" The sentence was so sudden, that the Nightmare King could only manage a one-word response. The woman faltered a bit, staring into her mug.

"Sorry for being so sudden," she apologized, hesitating before continuing. "It's just… You've been through some hardship, right?" [Oh how devastatingly right she was] "It's alright for you to stay here for a while if you need to."

There was that look in her eyes again, that pity. He wanted to do something—turn out the lights, push it back on her, _show_ her that the _Nightmare King_ was _not_ someone to be _pitied_—but something stopped him. His own fear was terrible, and _wasn't this a safe place?_

Would it hurt to stay? Just for a bit. The Nightmares hadn't made it to this place. It wasn't as if they eventually wouldn't _(You made sure they were quite determined)_, but that was something to worry about later. He would be safe for at least a day, perhaps two. And if the Guardians were looking for him, too, he highly doubted they would check here—for who would ever think that he would take up safe house with a human?

"I accept," he answered, and the woman's eyes lit up again as she smiled, all traces of that disgusting pity gone.

"I hope I can treat you well. Please feel free to stay as long as you need," she said. "Oh, I suppose we should introduce ourselves. I'm Madeline Thorburn."

He almost lied about his name. There was no reason to tell the truth. He would be here for a day, two at most, and then they would more than likely never see each other again. Human names were easy enough to lie about anyway; they were simple things.

And then the realization struck that this woman could actually see him.

"Pitch Black."

* * *

**To Be Continued**

* * *

Judging by all the emails I keep getting about my other stories, people would appreciate it if I were posting updates for those instead of this. Since I'm an author and have way too many ideas for my own good, alongside an incredibly random system for picking what I post, this will just have to come first.

I started writing this last Christmas after having watched the guardians movie way too many times than what could be considered healthy. It is actually one of the stories I have that has a clear end in mind, now all I just need is the time, motivation, and energy to do so.

This is a writing challenge on many levels for me. I'm trying to increase the amount of content that goes into chapters, as well as trying out a few narrative techniques that I humbly request that you bear with as I keep writing this story. All things considered, with the way this story goes, Pitch will probably end up OOC at times, but I'll do my best to avoid that.

Next time we see more of the everyday in Madeline's life, as well as Pitch trying to adjust. Please look forward to it!


	2. Chapter 1: Safety

**Strength**

By: Aviantei

Chapter One: Safety

* * *

Madeline Thorburn was, in nearly every sense of the word, an adult. She had long passed the age of eighteen, the human's main marker for adulthood in legal circumstances. Beyond that, she seemed to be in good shape maturity-level wise, if the well-maintained house and management of a moderately successful horse farm were any indication. She did her work, paid her bills, and was able to provide a decent enough experience to her suddenly acquired houseguest.

And yet, whether she was aware of it or not, she still had a belief in something as childish as the Boogeyman.

It was the slightest bit dusty, but after they had finished their drinks, Madeline had easily fixed up a guest room to be acceptable for living. The room itself was plain, but it held all the human essentials—a bed, a closet, a dresser, a lamp, etc.—which Pitch chose not to point out his lack of need for. Shortly afterward, she apologized and ran out to presumably go care for the horses, promising dinner afterwards.

Despite its size, the house itself seemed to be rather lacking in comparison to the norm. Pitch had watched humans develop multitudes of toys they didn't really need over the centuries, but Madeline didn't seem to own many of them. Where others had televisions and computers (and often multiples), her main source of entertainment appeared to be a radio in the kitchen, and her most advanced piece of technology to be her microwave.

There wasn't much else to be explored either. Even when slipping between cracks under doors let him surpass any locks, there wasn't much to offer. All things considered, if there had been something in the entertainment department, Pitch doubted he would have been able to focus on it properly.

It was starting to get dark by the time Madeline finally came inside, apologizing again for needing to take a shower before cooking. Pitch kept his responses to a minimum, only giving the impression that he was not particularly bothered by the fact.

Even so, he ended up sitting in the kitchen once Madeline came out of the bathroom. Her dirty blonde hair was let out of the bun it had been in earlier, a towel draped over her shoulders as she started to cook. The radio turned on soon enough (Pitch had to admit he didn't know enough about modern music to identify it), filling up the silence.

"I'm not very good at small talk," Madeline admitted. "I've been living out here alone for a while, and the only people I really talk to are the hired help. In fact, I probably could only lead a decent conversation about horses. Sorry about that."

Pitch didn't really see it as a problem, even if he understood how such a thing could be a bother in her eyes. It occurred to him that she was also probably in the category of people who are better at listening to others. "It isn't something that particularly concerns me," he said. "You don't need to talk."

His host's turned back prevented the Nightmare King from reading her expression. However, he could sense her nervousness. After all, it was only a step away from fear, and over something so simple and silly, too.

_What if I give a bad impression?_

If only she knew who she was dealing with: that her house guest was a monster. That at a simple whim he could make her worst fears come to life. Maybe then she wouldn't be concerned with something as trivial as whether or not she could indulge in pleasantries like small talk.

"I didn't mean to force conversation on you," Madeline said. "As you may have guessed, I don't often have guests over."

Pitch thought back to the layer of dust in the guest room. "It is a bit out of the way to be convenient," he commented, even though in his case it was the opposite. For him, the isolation made it a rather safe haven, particularly since there wouldn't be much fear to attract the Nightmares either.

"I suppose…"

Pitch waited for the obvious questions to come—_Why are you out here? What happened? What were you running from?—_but Madeline stayed silent. For some reason, he was almost annoyed that she hadn't asked. He was certain anyone else would have.

Then again, even if she did ask, just what exactly would he say? Pitch probably wouldn't be able to speak the truth, to _explain_ exactly what had happened, how he had been defeated. So then it would probably be a lie, even if he probably would have to prepare something in advance. At the very least he could provide the deflection that he didn't want to talk about it.

[Hadn't he wanted to lie about his name, and ended up using the real thing in the end?]

But what was the point in thinking up an answer if she would never ask?

* * *

The plan had been perfect. At the very least Pitch was certain it had been. He was going to get it, the belief he wanted. The fear would be his—the _children_ would be his, and the Guardians [so stuck-up, so pretentious] _(but they were right, weren't they?)_ would pay by experiencing the pain he had gone through for _centuries_.

But that hadn't worked. Because one little coincidence, one little mistake, one little _child_ had been enough for things to turn against him. Just as North had said in the end, as long as one child believed, that would be enough. Pitch didn't even have that to help him.

_(So wasn't it natural that he had lost?)_

But it wasn't just the defeat that was gnawing at Pitch's insides, although it certainly was present. The main factor preventing that was that he had been defeated in the past, and it was only a matter of time before he would go back to plotting his revenge once again. That much was certain.

The difference was that he had never been defeated like _this_.

It was one thing to be beaten. He could use his loss to learn from his mistakes to turn things to his advantage. It was another and completely different thing to have your own plans turned against you. To come to the recognition of what exactly he had been causing all this time, and to have his two main weapons—the fear and the Nightmares—rebound back on him at the same time.

It was terrible.

He had been chased back into his own home by the Nightmares, and Pitch was certain they intended to keep him there. After all, they grew stronger from fear, the same as their creator. Following the solid defeat they had been delivered, both parties need to regain all the strength they would get. And there wasn't much else left to feed off of.

And while the Nightmares could benefit from the situation, Pitch most certainly did not. The Boogeyman spent a few hours settled against a wall when he should have been tallying up the remains of his arsenal. The realization that dawned in that time _(you're beaten, the Nightmare King is powerless, because no one believes in you, _just like always_)_ was mind-numbing enough that his usual strategic train of thought no longer even functioned.

It was due to a particular moment of self-depreciation _(you're nothing anymore)_ that he realized that the Nightmares were more than likely just as weak as he was. That it had been—_please let it be true_—the Fearlings' numbers that had allowed his capture. And that meant, if the situation would play into his favor, their recovering state should be enough to permit an escape.

So he observed [never mind the panic still present, weighing down his chest] as the Nightmares eventually spread out, some even retreating into the farther parts of his home to recover in. And once he was satisfied he could manage the depleted number if necessary, Pitch took his opportunity to slip through the plentiful shadows towards an exit.

The issue then arose that the hole beneath the bedframe had sealed itself once the Nightmares had dragged him back underground. Pitch was able to form a new exit, but the time it took to do so was too much for the Nightmares not to recognize what was happening. By the time he finally emerged back into the world of light [still in that boy's forest, with his snow making the surroundings nearly blinding after the darkness] the horses were already in pursuit of their escaping source of energy.

Which was the point where he had started running.

As much as Pitch wanted to view his escape as a victory to help heal his bruised ego, it had really just been luck that the Nightmares had spread themselves apart in the first place. It was luck that he had outrun them, and it was luck that Madeline Thorburn could provide him with a place to say that was even remotely safe.

But the feeling of safety was nowhere near enough to erase the memory of his own experience with fear. Pitch didn't sleep much anyway on a regular basis [he couldn't remember the last time he had slept properly, unnecessary as it was as an immortal, although it had certainly been a long time ago]. But even once dinner was finished, Madeline informing her guest of a small bookcase he had missed in one of the side rooms, and all the lights were out, the Boogeyman merely sat on his bed in silence.

He supposed that this was the equivalent of a waking nightmare, a never-ending thought process concerning the events of the past few days, on constant repeat. Remembering the moments of power he experienced only made the end result seem worse and worse. It was over, all over, all of that had been for nothing, he was powerless, no one believed in him, that seemed to be the way it was always meant to be, and it _just wouldn't stop_.

He only pulled himself out of the train of thought once Madeline peaked into the doorway, asking if he was awake and interested in breakfast. It seemed as if she was an early riser—Pitch hadn't bothered to close the curtains over the room's single window, and the outside still proved to be dark. And while the woman seemed surprised, eyes resting for far more than a few moments on the clearly unused bedspread, she still didn't ask a thing.

It seemed as if she lacked a fundamental curiosity—or maybe she was just being polite instead? Either way, Pitch felt a sliver of irritation [she believed in him, so she should ask] _(aren't you expecting a bit too much?)_, even if she was no longer visibly pitying him.

But that annoyance wasn't enough for Pitch to decline the offered breakfast. A part of him insisted on following her into the kitchen, as if she was the only thing keeping him safe simply because he was no longer alone with his thoughts. It was ridiculous, and Pitch mentally berated himself _(it's almost like she's a security blanket)_.

He tried to make it unnecessary. But the Boogeyman still ended up waiting for a breakfast that he didn't need. Because the fact of the matter was that the worries were still invading his thoughts, despite the radio's chatter and food frying on the stovetop.

"Madeline," Pitch said, speaking her name for the first time. While he didn't know about what, he wanted her to speak with him. Her self-proclaimed inability to conduct small talk was inconsequential. After all, conversation would give him something else to give active focus on, make the fear easier to counter.

Madeline seemed to pick up on his hesitation—and some of her own nervousness dwindled in response. "I'm sorry, Pitch," she said, "but I just realized I never asked you how you like your eggs." It was simple, so _human_ a concern that the Boogeyman almost laughed. However, he caught himself. Discouraging her from talking by the mockery that was so instinctual served his purpose no good.

Neither did his controlled silence. Madeline glanced at him over her shoulder, frowning slightly. After a small moment of thought—he ate just about as much as he slept, although a little more—Pitch answered, "It doesn't matter. Prepare them any way you like."

His mouth remained open after speaking. He had intended to transition—with grace—into a proper conversation, but nothing came to mind. It occurred to him that the Boogeyman had little practical need for participating in small talk, particularly since no one really saw him and other spirits avoided him. It put Pitch and Madeline on even terms.

He could talk, and quite eloquently as well. He could go on without pause [just like he had done with Frost only a few nights ago] about people's fears, picking them apart and making everything worse. He could make speeches that could send one's morale in either the positive or negative direction. But for all his desire to be believed in, to be seen, Pitch had expected to be inspiring fear rather than sitting down for a chat over breakfast.

"You're up early," he decided to comment. Madeline responded to the microwave first, the sound signaling that it was done happening at the same time as his words. The trip ended in a mug of tea nearly identical to the one from the previous night in front of him. The sugar bowl was nowhere in sight.

"So are you," Madeline said. Pitch didn't even bother to expect the obvious question. She skipped over it like experience predicted. "I didn't wake you up did I?"

"No." The plates were next to reach the table. It was a simple meal: eggs, bacon, toast. Pitch hadn't even considered that he would stay long enough to be treated to a second meal.

"That's good. I'm sorry that it's so plain. I'm not a very talented chef. I only know the basics to survive on my own." Madeline gave a small smile. "Things are really busy during the day, so I apologize in advance for lunch being dull, too. That is, if you're still here."

_If you're still here._

He really should just leave after eating. No, he should already be gone. The Boogeyman had no business relying on the hospitality of a human woman. He could be out, reasserting his powers [regaining his confidence] but only quietly, so as to keep the Guardians out of his way until he was ready.

_(But are you even ready for that?)_

The Nightmares were still out there, rampant, no longer under his control. And if the last night was any indication, Pitch was—unreasonably, infuriatingly—not going to be able to properly handle the situation just yet. Leaving was out of the question.

"That shouldn't be a problem."

She was shocked for a second, but then Madeline smiled. It wasn't out of pity, but instead joy that was conveyed from her features. Pitch still ended up looking away—no one was ever happy to see him or about what he did, and children could be reduced to tears by the mere idea of his extended presence. And yet she had smiled.

_(It's only because she doesn't know what you are)_ [That didn't change the fact that, despite the awkwardness, it felt nice.]

"You're not that picky, are you?" Madeline said, standing up. Pitch felt a flutter of surprise at the sudden action. Closer inspection when he looked properly showed that the woman's plate was already empty. "Not that that's a bad thing. At the very least it allows making your stay here nice simpler."

Pitch didn't have a proper response. He let the comment slide in place of changing the subject. "And you certainly eat fast."

Madeline let out a small laugh, her nervousness spiking up again. "Well I do eat by myself most of the time. Plus I have work to do," she explained. "Sure, no one's going to be here for some time, but I need to be ready to go. I am the boss after all. But if you want company while you eat, I do have some time to spare. You are my guest."

He almost took the offer, simply because he didn't want to be alone. But that was only a side effect of his less than relaxing night and about as pathetic as he could get. "There is no need to give any special treatment." _(Other than her fear, you want her fear, so why are you)_ "I don't intend to disrupt your daily life any more than I already have."

Madeline rinsed off her plate before adding it to a small stack beside the sink. "Alright. Feel free to come outside any time. I can take a break to show you the horses if you're interested."

Pitch's own interest in horses was currently diminished. Even if the ones in the barn were perfectly normal, he was still reminded of the Nightmares. Yet it would be a reason to be around someone else _(it's a pathetic excuse, flimsy really)_ which would help keep his thoughts distracted. Right now, that was enough. "I'll consider it."

Madeline gave one last smile before she left the kitchen, the front door closing a few minutes later. She hadn't turned off the radio, it now providing the only noise left in the room. Pitch almost stood up to follow before he realized what he was doing.

He had already decided not to do anything of the sort. She had a job to do, and Pitch Black would _not_ follow her around like some lost puppy. That truly was pathetic action, and he would only have himself to blame for the look she gave him.

Besides, that would only leave his breakfast abandoned, and he had asked for it in the first place [never mind his reasons]. If he was going to continue taking up space, surely he could eat the food, despite the fact that he really didn't need it. He may have been the Boogeyman, but that didn't mean he had to be uncivilized.

[That didn't change how human he was acting] _(Are you only using this to fool her, you can't really mean it)_ [Why would he mean it, this was for _safety_, and nothing else]

Pitch picked up his fork and poked at one of the eggs—sunny side up—breaking its yolk and sending a wave of yellow across the plate.

* * *

For being left alone for nearly four hours, he had been holding up quite well. Maybe it was the light that made a difference. It was a lot easier to forget something could be hiding in darkness when the dark was nowhere to be found. And wasn't that way small children ended up with night lights in the first place?

The layout of Madeline's living room was a great help in this. Unlike the guest room's one rather small window, here an entire wall was sacrificed to glass, a sliding door in the center. Outside were a small patio, then nothing but hills and the sun once it had risen. The woods were nowhere in sight, presumably on the other side of the house. And while Pitch wasn't enthralled that the snow—the boy's snow—was still there, he appreciated that the outside seemed slightly brighter because of it.

The irony that he was looking for light was not lost on him.

He had paid little mind to the bookshelf the previous day, then only having had the intention to explore the house. Today, it really was the only place to find something to do aside from think. And while it had taken some time to find a book he hadn't read recently—one could only spend so much of their time plotting revenge and scaring children—Pitch was ultimately successful.

And while reading had been enough to keep him distracted from thinking too hard, it wasn't a particularly successful endeavor. The hours passed, and, while Pitch admitted it had been quite some time since he had sat down to read—_Am I out of practice?_—he had barely made any progress in the contents of the book. Usually he could finish a volume in half the time it had just taken him to finish the first chapter.

One the realization struck that he had been reading the same two pages repeatedly without retaining any information, he called the farce off. Standing, Pitch returned the book to its place on the shelf, marks in the layer of dust ensuring that he would be able to find it again if he ever bothered. There was no particular reason to be distracted—he hadn't thought of the Nightmares at all since breakfast, and the house was empty with Madeline outside working.

Pitch paced back and forth a few times; then he was heading out the door. Leaving didn't cross his mind anymore. She had offered to show him the horses, hadn't she? Why not take up the offer? What else would he do—sit around and not even be able to engage in something as simple as reading? If he couldn't do that, he probably couldn't focus preparing to leave either. Seeing the horses was at least _something_.

_(You're in trouble if you need to keep forcing justifications like this for every little thing you do.)_

Due to the snow the previous day, Pitch hadn't realized the path connecting Madeline's house to the barn was in fact a dirt road. It was shoveled off—maybe that was why she had woken up so early, although Pitch had a hard time picturing Madeline wielding a shovel—the snow that still refused to melt in piles on the road's edge. Muddied tire tracks led up to the only other completely clear spot, where four vehicles of varying makes and colors were parked next to the barn.

Even from here he could see a few of the horses, more than likely meaning the animals were probably all been let out already. Sure enough, the barn was empty when he entered, quiet save for a noise coming from the ceiling. Pitch paused to look up; there was probably a second floor up there. Judging off the size of the barn from the outside, it seemed likely enough. He just didn't have any idea of what would be up there, nor was he particularly interested.

It was a nice barn, though, that much he had to admit. The wood looked relatively new, and fluorescent lights shone from the ceiling. Each of the horses' stalls was a decent size, wooden signs painted with overly ornate letters depicting the name of each stalls occupant. Food and water were ready as well, although the hay on the floors looked as if it was in need of cleaning. The air was even warm, thanks to the heating system he remembered Madeline mentioning yesterday. It must have been a nice place to stay if you were a horse.

After a brief consideration of if he should check upstairs for Madeline, Pitch finally exited into the field. Even if she was still in the building, it would be easier to look around outside first anyways. A few minutes of searching would answer the question, and then he could return to the barn if necessary.

A reddish brown horse trotted towards him, and Pitch took a step back. It was still affecting him, what the Nightmares had done. It was fresh in his mind, heart speeding up even though the horse in front of him was perfectly normal. Pitch placed a hand back on the barn door, considering heading back inside immediately.

The horse ended up ignoring him, causing Pitch to wonder if it could even see him in the first place. Animals could be just as subjective as humans when it came to what they saw. Some immortals had no problems talking to the most obscure creatures—like North and Toothiana—but Pitch never bothered unless he was enlisting help in a scare, and even then it was more of issuing commands. Otherwise, animals usually just ignored him [they probably could sense something awful even if they didn't see him]. This particular horse could simply just not care if the Boogeyman was in its presence.

It was harmless anyway. Even if it did anything, there was nothing that could cause as much pain to Pitch as the Nightmares. Besides, he hadn't even accomplished what he had wanted yet. Relaxing, his eyes scanned over the field—if Madeline was wearing the same blue scarf as she had been yesterday, finding her would be a simple task.

It turned out she was still wearing it, and it made the woman stick out amongst the rest of the world. Madeline was talking to one of her workers—a tall redhead that towered over his boss—who came running towards the barn seconds later, presumably on orders.

Pitch took a few steps towards his target before [there was a swift pressure, hot, burning, leaving only a feeling of absolute cold in its wake, always more terrible than any other thing he had and would ever] _(don't act surprised, you knew this was coming) _the man passed right through him.

* * *

Phew, finally decided to let this story get updated! I hope the wait wasn't too bad but I wanted to get some work done on other things before coming back to this one. It is a fully thought out story, though, so don't worry about it never being finished... Even if it takes a while.**  
**

A massive thank you to vixen 1991, Haley Jo, Xion5, ChinaDang, ObsidianLove, Tsuki Hoshigaki, AcuteHedgehog, Rellia of Lunaris, Acandrys, Saphem, elain173, Queen Serenity, and SamanthaSamma for your respective reviews, favorites, and follows of this story! I honestly think that this is the most response I've gotten to an opening chapter of anything I've ever written. Thank you all for your enthusiasm about this story! Sorry to keep you waiting.

As much as I like this story, it can be challenging to write sometimes, so if updates are a little slow, I hope you understand.

Next time, Madeline and Pitch react to the situation. Please look forward to it!


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